


Those Who Own You

by BirdArrow



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:45:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdArrow/pseuds/BirdArrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dualscar meets his descendant, and is less than pleased. He simply will not do. Shameless, needless smut.  (Non-con is sort-of-but-not-really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Own You

You’re not certain how your Ancestor got here, but you’re pretty sure, at this juncture, it doesn’t matter. The excitement in your eyes had been met only with cold apathy, as he sized you up, quelling you instantly. He took a step closer, and suddenly, dwarfed by his shadow, you can’t get over how big he is. From the look on his face, you can tell that he doesn’t like what he sees, that without ever looking up, you’ve disappointed your ancestor. A shiver runs through you as you remember, stories, tales, reasearch you’d done, to be sure you came from him. There’s no telling what he might do to you, now that you’ve failed him, though you couldn’t even say how.  
In your fit of distraction, you’ve failed to notice that the Orphaner was moving again, and now a massive hand rests on your throat, fingers tight where your jaw bone meets your ear, the grasp almost hard enough to bruise. Instinctively, you gasp, a pathetic, strangled, airy sound, and your gills open and flap uselessly, trying to draw in the air your lungs aren’t getting. Seeing this, he relents a little, though those yellow-and-purple eyes still drill into yours. He runs one clawed finger down your face, leaving a faint purple line, not quite a cut, but painful, none the less. You’re conscious of how close that massive, muscled body is, and how little you can do about it, and he only gets closer, leaning down, as if trying to ferret some secret out of you without speaking, eyes still hard and hostile. And then, absolutely the last thing you’re expecting, he kisses you with surprising gentleness, rough brine-salted lips pressed against yours, making your breath hitch and your desperate, long-neglected body betray you. His rings are cold, cold, cold against your skin, as cold as the wintry air he’s just come in from, and he reeks of the salt and stink of the sea, the tang you grew up with, both familiar, and disturbing for clinging so thoroughly to this man who’s invaded your space so easily and obviously plans to do much the same with your body. His kiss probes, and you respond eagerly, in spite of yourself, tongue pressing against and then through his half-open lips, running over his shark teeth, making you shiver again in his grip. All it would take would be one good, hard bite, and you’d never talk again. You really are at his mercy. He spits your tongue out, as if he’d been fed shit and then personally insulted, and he drops you abruptly, straightening up, thunder in his face. You swallow, feeling yourself begin to shake. Where has your self-control gone tonight? Oh, that’s right. He crushed it under foot as he strode through your door.  
  
“Did I- Did I do somefin wwrong?” You voice wavers even more than usual, and you wince, slightly. The last thing you need is to seem any more vulnerable, because now, he’s sneering at you.  
  
“Wrong? Have you ever done ANYthing right? You’re scrawny, attention-starved, poorly dressed-” He stops, overwhelmed, obviously fighting down a tide of anger, and for a second, you think he’s going to spit on you, and take a step back. This is the wrong move, yet again. He grabs you, hard, nails cutting through shirt and skin, wetting the fabric with your blood, making you gasp.  
  
“H-hey!”  
  
“Tell me, has another troll even been this close to you before? Well?!” You swallow, searching his face, and decide you might not like what happens if you make him any angrier.  
  
“No,” you admit, letting your eyes fall to the floor. His hand moves so fast you don’t see it coming, the back of it thundering across your cheek, whipping your head around, leaving white spots in your vision as your cheek slices open and a bruise begins to form. You slough to the floor, knees giving under you. You choke back a sob, even though you can’t make your eyes stop watering, your whole face an inflamed, smarting purple. A trickle of blood, the same color as his, runs down your face as you get to your hands and dare to look up. He smirks down at you, supremely pleased, and proceeds, very slowly, to lick the blood from his ring, never taking his eyes from yours. A ring with YOUR symbol, the symbol you share. Before you can stop it, a growl rumbles from between your gritted (and luckily unbroken) teeth. He laughs, actually laughs, a cold, vicious sound that contains more than a little humor, all at your expense. His fingers drag through your hair as he bends over, and then, he pulls, hard, hard enough to make you scream, the purple-tinted brine at the corners of your eyes spilling over as you scramble to stand. He turns you, using your entire head as reigns, as if just to showcase how small and fragile you are compared to him. He steps forward, solid body against your back, one arm around your waist, encompassing it easily and holding you there. You feel his fingers twine with your scarf, pulling it just enough to threaten and make your breath hitch a little, toying with you. For a minute, a second to him and an eternity to you, he just holds you there, feeling the way your young, under-developed body trembles against him. Fresh, soft. Ripe for the picking. You tremble harder. For Dualscar, this isn’t even worthy of note, you’re sure. Just another bug crushed under his toe, worthy of no more note than a dead lusus thrown to Gl’bgolyb. And then, the moment passes, the older seadweller done drinking in your fear, and steps forward, slamming you down, hard, onto the hard wood of the table, your own kitchen table.

Your name is Eridan Ampora, and you cannot believe this is happening. His fingers wind around the scarf at your neck, pulling the soft cloth away from your neck, and you yelp, attempting to stop him, to bring your hands up to grab it. He just slams you farther onto the table with one hip, and you whimper, feeling a bruising line begin to form where your hips have been forced against the wood, your feet still on the floor. He snickers, pulling again, leaving your throat cold and exposed, and you know it won’t be long before the rest of you follows. He grabs your wrists roughly in his other hand, forcing them behind your back, until your hands rest on your own elbows, the position strange and slightly painful. 

“You’ll never be fit for a kismesis. Even though you’ve somehow avoided culling, it won’t be long now.” You can hear the smirk in his voice, and you shiver harder, letting your head drop to the wood.

“Please. Just leavve me alone.” He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. That sounded pathetic enough even to your own ears, a desperate, resigned plea, trying to hold off something you know you can’t stop. You just wish your bulge would stop writhing, that even these brutal attentions didn’t provide as much pleasure as terror. Something soft and slightly scratchy wraps around your arms, replacing his hands to hold them in place. Your scarf. he’s tied you up with your own scarf. You whimper again, because even though you could rip free, it would do no good, only serve to make things worse. This is a reminder. You’re his toy. You can’t stop him, so you’d better stay put. You can feel him against your legs, your ass, close enough to tell he’s as excited by this as you are, though for him, it’s probably the thrill of a conquest, no matter how pathetic. His hands free, he lets them trail along your body. One goes up, following your arm, the curvature of your shoulders, the claws dragging across your skin, razor-sharp, leaving thin pathways of broken skin and seeping purple blood behind, and finally resting there, pinning you down with little effort, making sure you’ll stay put as he slams you. The other goes down, tailing so lightly across the hollow of your back that it’s hardly there, making you shudder, the heading further down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants, and pulling them down easily. He cups the globe of your ass in one hand, squeezing unabashedly, and you bite your lip to avoid moaning. The palm of his hand is rough, calloused and dry from hard work, fighting, and a life on the sea, almost abrasive against your tender skin, still cold, though not as cold as before, his rings now almost as warm as your skin. He laughs again, with as little mercy as before.

“And you’re already excited. Little slut.” This time, you do moan. Only in your most unreal fantasies has anyone ever called you that, and that was in blackrom, when you could fight back. You’re not longer sure what this is, or even whether you want it to stop. The hand slips between your legs, and he cups your bulge in his palm, testing its size, the slight squeeze he gives your writhing genetalia enough to make you flush harder as shame adds to pleasure and fear, a clearer communication of inadequacy than words could ever be. He winds one tentacle of your bulge, one of the bigger ones, between his fingers, and it’s already slick with the fluid that suspends genetic material, ‘pre-cum’, you think you saw it called somewhere once, and it feels so good that you can’t even concentrate on the fact that your arms hurt and your face hurts and your hips hurt where he’s pressing them. Then the hand is gone, and he retreats a step, and you begin to whimper, because it was just beginning to feel good, almost worth the pain.

“P-p-please,” You stutter, sniffling, ashamed of yourself, but your bulge is still writhing so hard in the chilly night time air that you don’t care, you just want, need, to be touched again. There is dark laughter, and he runs a hand through your hair, smearing your own fluids through it as he presses his hips against yours again, but this time, there is nothing between you.  
“Oh, don’t worry, little slut. I have no plans to stop.” You whimper again, hands clutching, suddenly sure you’ll need something to hold onto, and finding only your own forearms, so you squeeze those, tight, and it’s a good thing you did.  
He slams into you, and oh gog, he’s ENORMOUS, you don’t know where he keeps it all, or, for that matter, how he’s fitting it into your ass, or why, when you have a perfectly good nook, and then, you’re screaming. Not just the trifling screams you let out earlier as he dragged you around, but opening your mouth, and wailing pain until there’s no air left in your lungs, and the drawing a ragged breath, and repeating. Though it seems to be getting the job done just fine, from a practical angle, the slickness of his enormous bulge is not nearly enough lubrication for your comfort. You run out of breath, and bite your lip to keep from screaming again, chest heaving, gills flapping. He’s gotten it all into you, and for a second, he just stands there, letting you recover, you suppose, though that is NOT going to happen, because it is writhing inside you, kneading and stroking and twirling and shifting the virgin space. You cannot, literally cannot, believe how good this feels, and suddenly, you’re glad to be on the table, because if you were still, somehow, standing, you’d collapse. Your legs tremble and shake as it is. He puts his hands on your ass, squeezing it, rubbing it with his thumbs, and you let out a low moan, getting a surge of pleasure as he takes some of your weight, allowing the sensation to intensify in the temporary lessening of pain. He chuckles.

“You know what, little grub? You’d make a fucking EXCELLENT whore.” This pretty much instantly pulls you from the little ‘happy place’ you’d been building for yourself, and you snarl.

“Go fuc-” You’re cut off as he slams forward again, into you, slamming your already-bruising hips into the table, and holding you in place there as he pulls out a second, letting the tentacles of his bulge writhe around your asshole, which instantly constricts around him, and suddenly, you feel utterly empty. You begin to sob again, to whimper, and he laughs again, louder and harder, as if this entire incident is some enormous joke, something to tell his buddies about later over a drink. In all honesty, it probably is, but he doesn’t give you time to think about it, slamming against you again, forcing his bulge into your ass, all the way up to the base, the tentacles moving faster, making you gasp and then moan, hard, your hands clenching so hard you’re drawing your own blood now. Your bulge, unattended, is swollen with genetic material, throbbing, begging for friction. As he begins to pull out again, you attempt to push your hips back onto him, going so far as to stand on tiptoe, and you can tell from the wetness between your face and the wood, you’re crying again, but you don’t CARE, you just need MORE. Fortunately, this only seems to excite the Orphaner, who thrusts back into you, and slides one hand from your ass to your bulge, toying with it, making you whimper and moan with every little thrust, his own engorged bulge writhing in you. And then, he explodes, and begins using you as a bucket, and you’re screaming again, face burning with shame. It feels like you’re going to explode. It fills you, even though you’d already thought yourself full, and you’re sure you’re swelling. It leaks out of your abused ass, dripping down your thighs in thick strings, and your screams fade into whimpering sobs. He pulls out, and actually pinches your ass closed. You can feel him watching it, dripping out of you. This time, you don’t feel empty. You feel full, and every time you try to twitch a little, it sloshes inside you, seeping and hot. The feeling is much, much better than you want to admit, so you just close your eyes, and let yourself sob, chest heaving, thighs getting progressively stickier with each gasp. He runs a hand over your ass, making a shushing sound.  
  
“Now, now. You don’t need to cry,” As he speaks, he runs his fingers gently down your back, stroking, caressing, his hips still pressed against yours, but no longer hostile and invading. he runs a hand down the cheek of your ass, and you shiver, despite yourself. A big thumb enters your range of vision, until now composed only of the expanse of wooden table and the familiar kitchen wall, and he wipes one of your tears away. “You acted just like a good whore should.” You prickle, slightly, but you’re too tired to growl, and you don’t want to think about what might happen to you if you say anything. There’s a scrape of wood against tile, and the warmth of his hips disappears, leaving you shivering for a second. Something very soft drapes across your bare, violated ass, and you sniffle, trying to look around. Sympathy isn't in him, you know this, but,you just might be wrong, because from what you can see, that’s his cape. Now, he’s touching you again, running his hands down your back, stroking your ass, cupping your sticky thighs at once, soothing and exciting at the same time, and like a bolt, it hits you. He’s not done with you. He’s simply letting you recover, before the next go. You begin to shiver again. He begins talking again, and you wish he wouldn't.  
  
“I WAS going to kill you, but it would be a shame to simply cull such an eager fellow. You don’t share the looks of her slave, of course, but I think you’ll compare nicely. After all. Even she can’t claim to have her descendant whimpering by her boots.” His hands spread a little as he strokes you, and you realize that you’re whimpering again, that for some reason, he is trying to comfort you. Maybe, he just doesn't want to hurt his new pet. You take a deep, shuddering breath, letting yourself relax against the table, trying to calm down, to stop, and this seems to satisfy him. You can tell he’s still watching your ass drip, but at least the sloshing sensation has stopped. “So, if you’re coming with me. I suppose I’d better give you a reason to enjoy your new job.” A mocking hint of mirth lies in his voice, and you shudder again, wondering what he’s going to do, what ‘enjoying your job’ is going to entail. He doesn't leave you wondering long. He sweeps the cloak aside, draping it over the back of his chair, and puts one hand under your stomach, the other on your thigh, and rolls you over until you’re belly-up on the table, looking over the flat expanse of your chest at him, still shaking slightly, especially your exhausted legs. He pushes you forward, until they can rest, and you let out a sigh of relief, which lasts about exactly ten seconds, because he’s pushed himself forward again, and that hand hasn't left your thigh, and the other is cupping your hip now, and - Oh, fuck! His mouth. He’s put his mouth on your bulge, licking, teasing, making you dissolve into a lump of pleasure. You moan, unable to help it, wishing your arms weren't still tied behind your back, and he only seems to take this as encouragement. He goes from licking, to pulling your writhing bulge into his mouth with his tongue, taking his time, making you moan and gasp and shudder with every little twitch, and it’s almost too much, you’re still wound up from what he’d done to you before, your ass still smarts. And then, he’s got it, in his mouth, and, oh, it feels good! A sharp, sudden stinging sensation makes you gasp, and try and squirm away, reality reasserting itself once again. All he needs to do to neuter you is close his mouth. You were at his mercy before, but you’re helpless now, and if he doesn't like what you’re doing, you are CERTAIN he’s going to bite down. He’ll probably have your bulge cooked for dinner and leave you lying on the floor until you bleed out and die, so you don’t even bother to think before you start to beg.  
  
“Please, please, please! Don’t bite me!” He laughs, and you shudder, and you can feel ALL his teeth pressing into the base of your bulge, and you begin to sob, and beg harder. “Dualscar! Orphaner! Sir! Master!” You’re practically shrieking, searching desperately for a way to placate him. As you shriek the last honorific, master, his mouth loosens on your bulge, the threatening feel of teeth withdrawing, and you draw in a shuddering, relieved breath. He goes back to licking and sucking, one hand drawing little circles with his thumb against the inside of your thigh, and you quickly become lost in a world of pleasure again, trying to twitch your hips up and fuck his mouth. Of course, he doesn't let you, the hand on your hip holding you easily, but at least it doesn't seem to bother him. Dualscar definitely knows what he’s doing, and it’s only seconds before you’re moaning his name, so far gone you hardly realize you’re doing it. He sucks, one final time, and you begin to cum. He pulls his mouth away before you can dirty his face, and sits back, simply watching as genetic material floods from you over the wood of the table.  
  
“We’ll have to work on your control.” You don’t object, too busy shuddering and twitching through your orgasm. Slowly, the feeling fades, the flood of genetic material stops, and you begin to come back to your senses, eyes seeking out his. He smiles at you, and your heart flutters. You wish it wouldn't, wish it hadn't. Wish that you hadn't enjoyed any of it. He reaches out for you again, and though you shudder at his touch, you don’t dare stop him. He pulls you through the puddle of genetic material, making you blush purple, and gently wipes off what he can with his soiled cape, before spreading it over his lap, and pulling you onto it. For a moment, he just holds you, arm wrapped around your shoulders loosely, letting you rest as you shake and tremble, crying again. You wrap your arms around the muscled trunk of his waist, clinging to him as you shiver and sniffle, just to have someone to hold, allow yourself to take comfort in his warmth. He strokes your hair, kisses the base of your horns, whispers about what a good little slut you are, and though you know this should offend you, you don’t care. It simply feels good, the praise, the approval. Knowing that finally, finally, you've done something right. Once your trembling stops, and your tears have mostly petered out, his hands still on your hair, and he stands up, holding you for a second, before setting you down. You sway, dizzily, legs unused to standing, unsure after that incident, but manage to stay upright.  
  
“You’ll be coming with me. Go pack, and clean yourself up. I’ll be using your ablutions chamber.” You swallow, nervously, and without even second-guessing yourself, you know you’ll obey. After all. Maybe this will be your chance at a real adventure. Maybe it won’t be so bad. At least he seems to treat his toys gently.


End file.
